I caught sight of a name I’d not thought of for ages
At breakfast today in the paper, which fell
From my fingers. It’s rare that the paper engages
My memory; this one, though, rang quite a bell,
And it led me to stare toward the distance and dwell
On the time we young poets were both in our primes,
When I knew I’d go farther than he would go. Well,
The son of a bitch got reviewed in The Times.
Now, I know that it’s not recognition that gauges
Success, but although it means nothing to sell
Lots of books or become the new fashion that rages
Through critical circles, I couldn’t dispel
An uneasiness, jumbling my thoughts all pell-mell,
And I found myself stumped for the simplest rhymes.
I just wanted to open a window and yell,
“The son of a bitch got reviewed in The Times!”
Looking back toward his earlier work, it assuages
My feelings a bit (though it sure doesn’t quell
My amazement) to think of the way he wrote pages
Of dull, mindless drivel you couldn’t compel
His own mother to look at. He hardly could spell,
Let alone write a poem. But, of course, these aren’t crimes,
And I’m not a bit jealous. I think it’s just swell
That the son of a bitch got reviewed in The Times.
Envoi
He’s a prince among poets; I knew he’d excel,
And he’s certain to climb as Mt. Everest climbs
Through the clouds. Just one question, though: how in the hell
Did the son of a bitch get reviewed in The Times?
Max Gutmann has contributed to more than three dozen journals and magazines, including Cricket, Light Quarterly, and a number of publications with Review in their titles.
